


heat and water

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shameless food porn. Will has bad dreams about eating people; Hannibal rectifies this by feeding him comfort food (made of people). Many thanks to tumblr user corsecant for beta reading this for me at like, one in the morning. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	heat and water

“Sit.” Hannibal says, and Will does, knees bumping awkwardly against the table. He looks wholly out of place in Hannibal’s kitchen, wearing an oversized dress shirt, hair damp from the shower Hannibal made him take. He’s still in his boxers; the pair he’d been offered are still sitting on the bathroom counter.

“Now, when was the last time you ate?”

“Dunno.” Will mumbles. He has the decency of mind to look embarrassed.

“Then we shall start there.”

He has fresh meat in the freezer; a particularly robust and altogether irritating young parking attendant. It is far too early in the morning to spend the hours of required prep-work to make a truly spectacular meal, but Will in his current state is hardly a discerning dinner guest. But as Hannibal moves to turn the oven on, Will makes a noise of discontent.

“Do you have anything vegetarian?” Will asks, and then cringes as if realizing his folly.

“Meat doesn’t usually bother you,” Hannibal replies, hand hovering over the switch. He could pursue it, of course, with a hundred different manipulations couched in concern, all equally valid. Scrawniness. Comfort and familiarity. Health. Instead, Hannibal lets his hand fall to his side. Though he resents it implicitly, in this moment Will is very much like fine china. If pushed too hard, he will shatter.

“Perhaps I could interest you in a simple garden salad instead?”

“Thanks.”

Silence descends upon them, heavy with Will’s muted embarrassment. Hannibal does not test it. Will will speak soon enough; instead, he lets himself get caught up in the act of preparing the meal. It is a small comfort, perhaps one of the only acts of normalcy Hannibal enjoy. He thinks bitterly of blonde hair and blue eyes with a sudden burst of emotion profound and raw and unbearably bittersweet. How ironic that he would become so very much like the men that had made him. In another life, he perhaps could have been a chef. Or perhaps he would remain the same, a simple psychiatrist, with simple pleasures and a simple life. Instead he is here, standing mere feet away from the only man who might be able to understand him and would hate him for it.

When returns to himself, Will is looking at him with unmasked concern. Hannibal looks down at his stilled hand, the lettuce hanging limp, wet, and forgotten, and wonders how long he has been standing like that.

“Tomatoes?” A weak recovery, but Will does not press him.

“No thank you.”

“I’m afraid I only have balsamic on hand. I prefer to make my own dressings,” Hannibal says by way of apology. “Given the early hour, I hope you’ll forgive my laxness.”

Will flinches visibly, giving a start in his chair. For a moment he looks panicked, but as quickly as it’s there, the look is gone.

“Why do you feel the need to hide from me, Will?” A risky move, but at this time Will is too concerned with his own neuroses to question Hannibal’s.

“If you want me to go home, I can call a cab.” Will hunches his shoulders, looking every bit like the kicked strays he is so fond of.

“Nonsense. I am simply curious. You come to my home at nearly one in the morning from what I can only presume was one of your bouts of sleepwalking. You refuse my cooking, despite your usual enjoyment. And you hide yourself from me, something I thought you’d long overcome.”

“When you put it like that…” Will barks a laugh, raking his fingers through his hair. When he speaks again, he is nearly incoherent in his haste, words tumbling out of him in starts and stops.

“I can’t sleep. I see things. In my dreams. I see a person – if you can call it that. Eating flesh. Eating people. Always smelling of rot.”

“A Wendigo.” Hannibal supplies brightly, as he places the finished salad in front of Will. He fidgets with his fork, but does not eat.

“I’m not familiar.”

“An Algonquian horror encased in the human form, gaunt and starving for human meat. The fate that awaits anyone who resorts to cannibalism. Associated with winter and death.” Hannibal pauses to sit in the chair across from Will, sipping from a cup of tea.

“Have you heard of culture-bound mental illness, Will? There are fascinating reports of people convinced they were turning into Wendigos, complete with the craving for human flesh. Tell me, do you find yourself with a craving for human flesh?”

It’s meant as a joke, but Will blanches almost immediately.

“Will?”

“I.” Will licks his lips. Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “We encountered another victim today. Missing organs. Kidney, liver, lower intestine. There were bite marks. They’re being eaten. I can see it – I can see him – biting chunks of out of them, eating while they’re still alive. I can imagine myself eating them. I can’t eat.” The last bit is whispered hoarsely, and Hannibal smiles, slow and predatory.

“Then perhaps you should let me cook for you more frequently. After all, my dishes are decidedly non-human.”

At that, Will smiles, bright and fleeting, like clouds behind the sun, radiant in its ignorance.

“Now eat your salad.”

*

Will pads into the kitchen wearing the shirt Hannibal had lent him yesterday and a pair of Hannibal’s boxers. He looks better – his hair is still rumpled and the bags under his eyes are still dark as bruises. But his edges seem smoother somehow, as if a night in Hannibal’s guest bed has sanded away some of his impurities.

“I was thinking of trying a trust exercise today.” Hannibal says, flipping the skillet without missing a beat.

“Oh.” Will scrapes his chair against the tiled kitchen floor. To his credit, he doesn’t dismiss the idea immediately. “What kind of trust exercise?”

“Food. I wish for you to let me feed you.”

“You do that already though. You’re doing it right now.”

“Blindfolded.” Hannibal amends, and Will quirks his lips into a smile.

“Ah.” Will’s fork clatters forgotten on the porcelain plate. “Isn’t that, um, a bit unorthodox?”

“Yes,” Hannibal admits, “but our relationship has long since progressed into the unorthodox.”

“Not many patients come knocking at one a.m., Doctor?”

“Not many patients have my home address.” Hannibal corrects, and Will grins around a mouthful of eggs.

*

“Please Will, take a seat.”

Will snorts in amusement, stretching a hand out to meet the corner of Hannibal’s dining table. His eyes are covered with one of Hannibal’s silk ties. “I have an appalling lack of blindfolds.” Hannibal had joked, knowing that Will’s discomfiture had little to do with the material. Will had frowned at that, the downturn of his lips so slight that it had been almost undetectable. Before Hannibal could remark, Will had closed his eyes, a silent yielding that had thrilled Hannibal to the core.

In the kitchen, with a hand on Will’s bicep, Hannibal guides him into the chair.

“We will start with something relatively inoffensive. Open.”

“You planning on serving me anything offensive?” Will quips, but his voice is tight.

“Nothing you haven’t eaten before.”

With Hannibal’s reassurance, Will begins to relax in degrees. The hands clutching the table begin to loosen, until they finally come to rest in Will’s lap. His shoulders un-hunch as he leans backwards, back resting against polished mahogany. Finally he exhales, a puff of breath that’s nearly inaudible, and opens his mouth.

He smells of mild fear and Hannibal’s soap; the combination makes heat curl in Hannibal’s stomach. Watching Will pluck the tomato from his fork is delectable, as is this grimace he makes as he bites down.

“Hilarious.” Will mutters, chewing, and Hannibal smiles.

“This is the most offensive dish on the menu, I assure you. Are you ready for more?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Hannibal waits, hands clasped, until Will shifts uneasily.

“Hannibal –”

“Manners.” Hannibal chides, and Will flushes. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Please.”

At the brush of the strawberry against his lips, Will inhales sharply. When they part, Hannibal brushes the pad of his thumb against the bottom lip. Will shudders, and bites down.

“Delicious,” he rasps.

“I should hope your palate is not so unrefined that you balk at a mere strawberry.” Hannibal jokes lightly, watching Will redden. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Please.” he says obediently, and this time the strawberry is dipped in cream.

“Highly unorthodox.” Will murmurs, and licks his lips.

“Do you have any complaints?”

“No.”

“Excellent. If you would.”

“Please.”

He feeds Will slowly and with care, passing him morsels of fruit, sometimes with the fork and sometimes with the gentle press of fingertips. Will is nothing but polite, lingering over strawberries and pomegranate seeds. His lips are tinged red, breathing shallow.

“I’ve prepared something simple for dinner. I do not wish to overwhelm you. Are you ready?”

The pâté is made from the liver of the parking garage attendant, warmed and served over crisp garlic toast and accompanied by a glass of port. It’s no foie gras, but the man had a most delectable looking liver and Hannibal had enjoyed preparing it. He entertains the thought of telling Will everything, of watching the horror dawn in his eyes as he realizes his dreams have chased him into reality. Instead, he passes Will the croustini, wordlessly smiling when Will makes an appreciative noise at first bite.

“Liver?” he guesses, and Hannibal beams.

“Duck.” he confirms.

“It’s great.” Will says and swallows. “Please?”

“They say,” Hannibal begins conversationally, “that deprivation of one of the senses causes the others to overcompensate in return. Tell me Will, does it do my cooking any favours?”

“Like it needs any.”

“Flattery is hardly becoming on you.”

“S’not flattery.” Hannibal watches as Will licks errant pâté from his lips. He opens his mouth with a hastily murmured “please” and then – “it’s the best food I’ve had in a long time.”

“I’m so glad you approve.”

Dessert is a simple affair; Hannibal falls on the classic crème brûleé. Will is old enough to not have a sweet tooth, but Hannibal believes in indulgence. Crawford may see Will as fragile, but Hannibal knows better. Will in his current state is brittle, un-tempered metal, and Hannibal will be both the anvil that shapes him and the water that strengthens him.

And sure enough, Will perks up at the crackle of the caramel. The way he licks the custard from the spoon is almost obscene in its decadence. When Hannibal pulls the spoon from Will’s mouth, he runs a finger along the edge of Will’s jaw. It is only then, mere inches from Will, that Hannibal smells the faint underlying scent of arousal.

“Will,” Hannibal says with all the caution of a lion to a lamb, “do you find this arousing?”

“Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.” Will nearly tips the chair back in his panicked haste, lurching to his feet.

“Will,” Hannibal says firmly, a hand on his shoulder. “Please sit back down,” and he does.

“Do you trust me still?”

“Yes,” Will whispers. “I’m so sor–”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Now please, finish your dessert.”

He eats in silence, and Hannibal doesn’t scold him. For the second time in under 24 hours, Will is mute. He licks the spoon clean and rocks back in his chair. He does not attempt to remove the blindfold, not even as Hannibal begins to do the dishes. Will’s anxiety is palpable; he is tense, shifting  in his chair.

Hot metal, waiting for the strike of the anvil.

“Would you like me to remove the blindfold, Will?”

“No.” Quiet and oh-so fragile.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Will says, and his voice is hoarse.

“Then take off your shirt.”

It takes Will an agonizing amount of time to shuck off the shirt, shaking fingers stumbling over the buttons, muttering under his breath. When he finally does he stands, awkwardly hanging the shirt over the back of his chair.

“Can I?” Will breathes, gesturing with a hand to his waist.

“Patience.” Hannibal chides, and Will’s hands fall to his sides, fingers splayed on the arms of the chair.

The cream is still on the table, so Hannibal starts with that. Will shudders at the feel of it against his skin, and when Hannibal presses his cream-tipped finger against Will’s lips, they part almost immediately. He sucks greedily, the sensation going straight to Hannibal’s groin. When his mouth descends to Will’s collarbone, tongue flicking to wipe clean the line of cream, Will _groans_ , low and hot.

Will squirms when Hannibal withdraws for a glass of wine, nearly thrumming with anticipation. He looks pristinely debauched, a work of art in his own right, perched in the chair with his cock straining against Hannibal’s borrowed boxers.

“Drink,” Hannibal commands, tipping the glass against Will’s mouth. He sputters at first, Adam’s apple bobbing, and then drains the glass. Hannibal rewards him with a kiss, and Will’s hands fly to Hannibal’s arms, fisting the fabric of his sleeves and holding him into place. Will has the finesse of a horny teenager, sloppy and desperate. He very nearly whimpers when Hannibal pulls away.

“Please –” Will chokes.

“Patience.” Hannibal reminds him. “All in due time.”

Will doesn’t gasp when the honey pools on his shoulder, but when Hannibal bites down, Will bolts so violently he nearly catches Hannibal in the face.

“Manners, Will.” Hannibal scolds, sucking on the bite mark, and Will has the audacity to bite back something about sensory deprivation and enhanced senses. It’s the tipping point in the long slow buildup that had begun months ago in Crawford’s office and is ending here.

He does nothing nearly as gauche as crawling into Will’s lap, but he does shove his hand into Will’s boxers. Will’s groan of acceptance is as delicious as a drop water of running down Hannibal’s spine. He palms Will’s erection roughly, Will jerking his hips to meet him. It’s messy; Hannibal leaning over Will, licking the salty-sweet taste of honey and sweat. Will still in the chair, whimpering and undone.

“Please, please, please.” Will chants as Hannibal withdraws to enjoy his handiwork.

“Please what?”

“Let me see you.”

“Patience.” Hannibal reminds, and Will snarls in frustration.

Hannibal undresses like it’s a performance, removing and folding the waistcoat and placing it on an empty chair. His shirt is next, slow and deliberate, as if Will wasn’t blindfolded. When he begins to remove his belt, Will fidgets with anticipation.

“Get up.” Hannibal orders, stepping out of his pants, and Will does so in an instant, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste.

“Kneel.”

When he presses the tip of his cock against Will’s mouth, the reaction is like flame to grass. Will moans around Hannibal, vibrations sending a spark of pleasure rolling through him. Thrusting with as much gentleness as he can muster, Hannibal cradles Will’s head in his hands. Finding the knots, he undoes the blindfold, letting it flutter to the ground.

The look Will gives him as Hannibal strokes his hair fondly  is feverishly bright, eyes wide and pupils blown. His sucking is messy and inexperienced; sloppy, eager, and entirely Will-like.

“Touch yourself.” Hannibal rasps, hips jerking, and Will does, boxers pooling at his knees. Hannibal watches as he jerks once, twice, thrice, before he comes in his hand. It is only then that Hannibal lets himself give in to the pressure building in his groin, to the warm wetness of Will’s mouth. He pulls out just as he finishes, revelling in the look Will gives him, semen smeared on his lips and dribbling down his chin. For a moment, Hannibal expects Will  to fuss, but then Will’s tongue darts out, curious and tasting, and Hannibal smiles down at him, satisfied.

*

Hannibal is not much for post-coital shows of affection, but he shares his bed with Will that night with only a mild amount of disdain. To his relief, Will retreats to his side of the bed with no attempts at romanticism. He is not abashed, and neither is Will, but they are both content to enjoy each other’s company in silence. Will drifts off to sleep first, borrowed book propped open on his chest, and Hannibal falls asleep watching him.

When Will wakes him in the middle of the night, it is not entirely unexpected. Hannibal doesn’t need to ask; he knows Will has dreamt of the Wendigo again.

“You are safe here.” Hannibal promises, and it isn’t a lie so much as a nuanced truth.

“What happened in the kitchen?” Will asks quietly, and Hannibal stiffens. When he doesn’t answer, Will continues, voice quiet with concern. “You don’t need to hide from  me either, you know. But I won’t press you.”

And he doesn’t.

It isn’t until Will slips back into a fretful sleep that Hannibal lets himself relax. His hand rests lazily in Will’s hair, fingers rubbing absentminded circles on Will’s scalp. It is a sentimentality that Hannibal does not often indulge in. He has a fondness for Will that alarms him with its breadth. Will as he is now is dangerous; he will be even more so when he is shaped and reformed. It’s more than Hannibal had bargained for, but not unmanageable. With caution, he can temper Will; if he is not careful, this man will destroy him.

In the morning,  Hannibal will take Will to Crawford. He will extend an invitation to dinner for the weekend. Will’s cannibalistic killer is the flame that heats him; Dr. Lecter is the hammer that shapes him, and Hannibal – Will’s friend, confidant, lover, _and_ _equal_ – will be the water that hardens him.


End file.
